


Illimitable Dominion

by anniesburg



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Biting, Blood, Death Threats, Duel your local Pontifex, Other, Romantic Aggression, Swordfighting, Violence, they're trying to kill each other but there's Feelings okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 07:39:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17597096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniesburg/pseuds/anniesburg
Summary: In which Pontifex Vulgora contemplates all possible meanings of the term "crush".





	Illimitable Dominion

**Author's Note:**

> i blinked and this willed itself into existence. i'm sorry?? but i'm also not. this is Heavy Inspired by masque of the red death and it's kinda in this weird no-space between the plague outbreak and lucio's birthday masquerade. anyway??? as always, enjoy!!

You are better than the death below, than the seething horde. You look defiant in the face of a soon-to-crumble city, battered and bruised by illness and despair. The truth of the matter is that wealth begets life and you see fit to live it in a most extravagant way. 

An invitation arrives for a masquerade. And as tempted as you are to return it with a few well-chosen --if hypocritical-- words, _mind your hubris, Lucio_ , you accept. The decision to break quarantine is as within your grasp as readily as it is to retreat into isolation. What is life, you consider, but a performance written for a worthy few? 

That would make death nothing more than a lack of talent.

Well, you’ve the means to attend so you do. It would be rude to refuse, after all. It would be rudest not to receive an invitation, but you suspect that Lucio’s learned that the shape you take when snubbed is unsightly. You’re prone to revenge. 

There isn’t any need for that, you remind yourself as you consider a whole manner of important things. He neglected you at the last masquerade and will never forget how dear the consequences were. All is forgiven. You hold a porcelain mask in front of your face, watching your eyes reflected in the mirror.

He has his answer in a matter of days, a cloying reply that insists he look for the woman dressed as a swan. Lucio sneers at the ink, you’re too similar for his tastes. 

Would that you were there to witness him fussing over social obligation. It would’ve done your heart so much good. 

You can imagine it, however. You’re also of a mind that an excess of likemindedness keeps you diametrically opposed, it would be tragic if he were the only one you intended to visit with. 

Thankfully, he is not. 

The process of readying oneself for a ball in a time of intense social strife would be completely pointless if the only one to benefit from it were someone you were on difficult terms with. But there is another, at least, to impress. 

They nearly tore your arm off during a dance, you lean forward and rest your elbow on your vanity. The memory’s enough to make you sigh with a deranged, dreamy look on your face. If they didn’t know how to waltz regardless of their intensity, you would be greatly surprised. 

Part of you knew then as you know now to consider it a compliment. Perhaps this time there will be a better venue in which to spar. 

Truth be told it’s a touch embarrassing how occupied your thoughts are with them, rehearsing your introduction in the back of your mind. You won’t smile at all, you tell yourself, until you catch their eye. 

Of course, how is that to last? The usual bustle about the count’s castle is lessened somewhat by the sickness. People still surge around the gates but this time, no one is allowed entry. You breeze past and try to ignore the mental image of a red miasma over the crowd, it’s a ghastly thought. 

You break your promise almost instantly, beaming broadly at the way Lucio has transformed his home again. Seven rooms, you hear people whisper as they rush through the entrance doors. Only seven this time but grander than anyone’s ever known, all with their own colour and theme. 

With bated breath you watch the doors ahead of you slide open, granting you access to the room beyond. The foyer is decorated a merry blue, playing host to several guests that feel the light best reflects the colour of their costume. 

No one is of interest to you there, nor in the room coloured a rich violet. Nor green and after that, green. You rely on your ability to spot a flash of red in the rooms decorated orange, white and violet. 

But you should have known where they would hide, they’re practically alone in wanting to be there. 

The last room is unlike the first six, the windows don’t match the walls. Instead of a corresponding colour, glass the colour of spilled blood drips from between wrought-iron panes. The walls and tapestries, rugs and sconces are a terrible black but the fire is red, red, red. It burns at the walls and the floor, it drenches all who inhabit it a horrifying colour. 

Four figures stand near the centre, talking to each other in a circle. You recognize them all. Two tower over the others, one clad in bandages and the other in velvet. Valdemar looks ashen, Vlastomil could be dying and no one would know. Volta is near-tears, her hands on her stomach. 

Vulgora looks like he’s come home. 

Blood, or what appears to be blood stains their face. It catches in the hollows of their eyes, they smile and they terrify. The other guests mill about near the door to this room, none but the courtiers appear to have courage enough to enter. Rather brazenly, you glide across the threshold. 

Your dress and mask immediately take on an appearance similar to a battle-victor. White feathers take on the dancing, red tones a little too well. And when you look up at your target, you find them staring already. 

“If it isn’t my dear friend,” you say first, the remnants of your wonderstruck smile still at the corners of your mouth. 

“Mutually assured destruction?” Their voice is an oil slick, you like the sound of it very much. 

“That does fit a bit better than dance partner, I’m still getting uncomfortable looks from people I’m hardly acquainted to.” The other courtiers seem hesitant to part from their close, circular formation. But Valdemar seems to understand that your intent is to stand with them, regardless of if they like it. 

“Dancing, please,” Vulgora’s teeth are sharp and gleam unpleasantly in the light. They have the appearance of one who has just ripped up a major artery. “I still don’t see the point.” 

“Then you’ll like what I intend to propose to you---” you begin. Volta abruptly interrupts, her thin hands gripping Vlastomil’s sleeve. 

“Is it true that dinner will be in the orange room?” She asks, you turn to her, momentarily distracted. 

“Even now, that’s all you’re thinking of?” Vulgora makes their displeasure unknown with an ease that accompanies aggressive tendencies. Volta hardly shrinks. 

“Of course! Dinner is very important!” She chimes. You’re only grateful that your intrusion is less noticeable with the way she carries on. “I do hope there is enough this time,” 

Vlastomil speaks up, then. He pries Volta’s hand from his sleeve and instead takes it in his own. He appears the least annoyed. 

“There was plenty at the last masquerade, if I remember correctly. But if you would like accompaniment---” it’s clear that she would. Before you can think to utter a goodbye, the two of them are gone. 

That suits you fine, even if it does catch you a bit off-guard to suddenly relay what you wanted to initially propose. 

“Come to beg a waltz?” Valdemar should learn to keep their thoughts to themselves, their voice is unpleasantly amused. Vulgora looks disgusted, but takes your hand when you offer it again.

“Not in so many words, thank you.” You’re tight-lipped with a purpose and your eyes don’t stray from the war-monger. “I would like to challenge you to a duel.” 

“You must be joking,” you do look at Valdemar, then. The look in your eyes would be vitriolic if it weren’t so blasé. 

“I’m really not,” an unpleasant smile curls on your mouth. You turn back to Vulgora, who has yet to speak. “if you won’t dance with me, duel me.” 

Their gauntlets dig into your skin, the sharp points at the end pressing uncomfortably. But you don’t hiss, nor cry out when they grip your hand tighter. Vulgora shows their teeth in a rare but enthused smile. Their yellow eyes, with the reptilian pupil, widen and gleam. 

“I accept!” Their joy is real, heady and from somewhere dark. You pry your hand from their grasp as they push you back, reaching the sword at their belt. 

You are similarly prepared, reaching for your own weapon at your waist. The gesture appears to have attracted the attention of the guests in the room next door. It becomes suddenly and clearly apparent to all why a swan need carry steel. 

Standing at twenty paces from Vulgora, you can’t contain your own joy. It was only a matter of time until you found the best way to win their approval, all you can hope is that you live to bask in the victory.

Drawing your sword and holding it out at them, you explain your rules.

“If I am the losing party, I will---” Vulgora cuts you off, near-faint with excitement. 

“Bleed out?” You point your sword at them with a threatening gesture. 

“Precisely, dear.” Their brow furrows dramatically. 

“And should you win?” You beam, flashing teeth at them in the blood-lights. 

“I won’t hurt you, but I will demand another dance.” Their face contorts into a snarl. 

“I would rather die!” Their displeasure evident, you choose to smile wider. 

“You’d better try to kill me, then.” Without another word, you lunge forward. You haven’t the time to wonder if it’s what Vulgora expects, but they grip their sword with assuredness that would terrify any foe. 

Make no mistake, however, you’re sure that they’ll do their very best to murder you in cold blood. 

Despite your offensive stance, you do not seek to hurt them. You seek only to win, bring your sword down on their’s so sharply that the sound of clashing metal can be heard from the blue foyer. 

Vulgora’s yell of anger attracts the real crowd, they bellow and push you back with an uncharacteristic strength. Despite the sudden interest in the outburst of violence, however, no one else enters the blood-red room. 

It must be a horrible sight, the sudden bursts of rage-filled energy and the way that Vulgora cares very little for the safety of their appendages. You keep your free arm behind your back, safe from their reaching gauntlets. This defensive action does not interest them. 

More than once, the edge of your blade catches a sharp point on their metal gloves. The sound is precise and distracting, they force you back with unpredictable, swinging motions. 

But you’re faster, you lunge out of the way and aim your thrusts when they show their weak spots. Where Vulgora takes a sure stance, you are in constant motion. 

“Stay still!” They demand, it makes you smile. You know the risks of this, the physical presence of them currently hangs about your waist. Wearing a ballgown was a foolish mistake. 

But what you lack in a prepared plan, they lack as well. Vulgora is ruthless, out to stain the windows with real blood but it’s been many years since there was a war. 

To their credit, however, they seem to delight in a chase. From stem to stern, you’re pursued with the sound of metal dragged along a carpet not far behind. You find yourself not only smiling, but laughing as your hair comes undone and the whole of the place is strewn with white feathers coloured red. 

There is burning hatred but also a good deal of fun. They’ve been away from a fight too long, coiled like a nerve and reserving their full potential for disobedient servants. 

You begin to think too much, focusing on the way their eyes are so split with killer instinct and passion. Just as you begin to wonder if you might be romanticizing their bloodlust, their hand darts out and snakes around your wrist. 

You’re pulled, bodily to them and you cross swords. The only thing stopping the sharp edge of their weapon from slicing your throat is your own, held perpendicular at eye level. Their grip is crushing your bones. 

To cry out would only bolster their resolve. You stare at them full in the face, at their red-rimmed eyes and jagged mouth. You laugh again, without really meaning to. It sends them sputtering, trying to dig their blade into you. 

“What’s so funny?” They hiss. 

“This is, isn’t it? I see now why you like it so much.” With a strong push, you force them off of you. And a well-aimed kick to their shin earns freedom for your wrist. You step back, out of harm’s way. 

You’re breathless and they are too, but their energy seems to come from somewhere else. It isn’t bodily, it’s ethereal and terribly beautiful despite every inch of it aimed at harming your person. You return to dodging, careful to keep your arms and legs away from their reaching. 

The crowd presses against the seam where the red-black rug begins. Tossing your gaze towards the people, you see Lucio watching with a mad glee on his face. He’s clearly enjoying himself with no plans to stop until someone emerges victorious. Wonderful. 

“I’ll kill you,” Vulgora reminds, they haven’t bothered to watch their audience. Their focus, for better or worse, remains squarely where it has for the entirety of the duel. 

“If you must,” clang, your sword crashes against their’s, “and you must,” clang, clang, “unless you’d rather waltz with me.” 

They roar instead of replying with words, it suits you fine. 

“Would that truly be so bad?” You’re not certain, but perhaps the melodrama in your tone allows for a further revelation on their part. 

“It’s boring,” they snarl. “this is better.” 

You’re inclined to agree, and you show it with another charge. But they’re prepared this time, side-stepping your attack and throwing an arm around your waist. Your ribs cry out in protest as you’re lifted and then heavily dropped at their feet. 

You gasp, back and chest aching as one as you rush to lift your sword and point it somewhere that could do extensive damage. A sharp point stings your jugular, the pressure faint but worsening.

“Wait!” You exclaim, a shock to both of you. Vulgora stands above you, the end of a sword to their stomach with ecstasy in their eyes. 

“What?” They bark, you close your eyes for a second. You’re so sure they’ll plunge the sword into your throat but the pain, shockingly, does not increase. 

“I’d like to amend the circumstances of the duel,” you reply, flinching at the sight of them when you open you’re eyes again. They are seething. “if you let me live, I’ll never ask you to dance again.” 

“If you’re dead, I doubt you could ask either way.” They snap, the sharp sensation of quickly-warming metal against your neck increases again. 

“I’ll give you something else, then,” you say, aware that time is of the essence. It’s becoming difficult to breathe. “I’ll tell you if you let me up---” 

You’re cut off by their wild eyes and the way their smile finally reveals itself again. It’s chilling. 

“No,” they say. “tell me what you’ll part with to live.” 

“A kiss,” you sigh. It’s barely loud enough for them to hear, but they do hear it. Their laughter is uproarious. “and the solemn promise that you will never have to waltz with me.” 

“Why?” They press, more with words than physical force. Your windpipe thanks them for it. You imagine they refer to the second portion of your new deal. 

“Haven’t we already, at least of a sort? I liked it your way much better.” You hesitate, but your grin returns as well. It’s feeble, sheepish, embarrassed. “And if you pierce my throat I know I will still have enough strength to push my blade as hard as I can into your gut. I don’t imagine that even Doctor Devorak would be able to save you.” 

They must like that look on you, embarrassment. After a long, tense moment, they lift their sword from your neck and the blade lands heavily across their shoulders. You cast yours aside immediately and they hold out a hand to help you up. 

“Mutually assured destruction?” Their voice holds a question that you nod in response to. 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” You’re pulled almost unceremoniously to your feet, your dress in a state of ruin and your mask discarded somewhere. You care very little. 

It’s when you’re stood that they claim their battle-prize. The feeling of an arm around your waist sends an unpleasant reminder to the parts of you sensing pain. You hiss, but there isn’t much time to. You’re pulled against them and their mouth crushes yours. 

You feel teeth and your own smile, happy and hurting and hoping that this lasts. It might, you think, last an hour for all you know. Your hands are free but not for long, they’re flung around their neck and used to reclaim an inch of control. 

The kiss is stinging and pleasantly endless. It fills you with something that sustains now that most of the adrenaline has subsided, it feels languid and slow. 

But to all that watch, some with cackles and others with expressions of horror it spans the length of another’s quick death. When you pull away, your chin is stained with blood. 

Vulgora bit you, you lift your hand to their mouth and see the evidence. Your fingers smear it unnecessarily and then you’re laughing again, tasting copper. 

Stepping back just enough, you hold out your arm like a forward offer of your company. Vulgora lifts their chin, near-defiantly but they take it. 

“Where are we going?” They ask you. The crowd parts like two tides rolling back from a shore. 

“To find Volta, I’m absolutely starving.” You look to them, bloodstained but unmistakably happy. “Her ideas are second to one alone, wouldn’t you agree?”


End file.
